Flowers For A Ghost
by Wisdom-woman
Summary: There he was never at peace, there he could hear their screams and wails. And it brought tears to his eyes. He has no control in this place, no hope of that one day all will be righted.


**Title: Flowers For A Ghost**

**Ratings: T**

**Characters/Pairings: Reid**

**Spoilers: None that I can think of.**

**Warnings: Suicidal references.**

**Word Count:1759**

**Author's note: I'm not making any money from this, so that means I'm poor, Reid-less, and I can't get sued. I also don't own the title, the song Flowers for A Ghost, or Thriving Ivory. (I'll be in my corner now.)**

**Inspiration: A dream I had a few days ago that just hasn't left me and the song Flowers for a Ghost. Listen to it. I'm off to watch Jane Lynch in Glee now. XD**

**Summary: There he was never at peace, there he could hear their screams and wails. And it brought tears to his eyes. He has no control in this place, no hope of that one day all will be righted.**

* * *

He sat in the midst of books, coffee mugs, and random case files. His little maroon couch had to have seen better days with all the coffee stains and nicks in it. With all the drapes snapped closed, the full moon had no chance to illuminate the cold room with her gentle, tear-like light. And Selene wept in such great sorrow, for yet another was dying in the streets below him. Yet, he hears nothing. No sounds penetrate his little world at that time, just the soft sounds of more coffee being brewed.

A hand delved into his thick hair, messing it up more than it was a matter of seconds ago. Dark rings set on top of various others from the lack of a good night's sleep and caffeine consumption. It must have been the nightmares again. Those God awful visions that haunted him, even when he was awake. A sigh left parted lips as he went for another sip of coffee, left hand's heel rubbing his tired eyes to stimulate them. Dark eyes glanced at the clock, time reading at him like a beacon. Amazed that it was half past three in the morning, the young man couldn't help but try to suppress a yawn. In less than two hours, he'd be on his way back to work, stationed in the bullpen among most of his coworkers.

Another yawn left his lips, loud enough to wake Helios from his own slumber. Standing from his little sofa, he stretched long limbs and twisted his spine until a resonating pop echoed over his yawn. He relaxed in his stance, hardly making it an inch when he fell back onto his divan, fast asleep in all but a matter of minutes. No sounds entered his little world, not even the noise his coffee maker made when the fresh pot was done.

* * *

He was back. Back in that damned world he drifted to when his mind went blank or when his subconscious took over. There he was never at peace, there he could hear their screams and wails. And it brought tears to his eyes. He has no control in this place, no hope of that one day all will be righted. And fear consumes his hapless soul. He, who has such a brilliant mind, who knows so much, cannot break free. And Dr. Spencer Reid is at a loss.

**You disappear with all your good intentions,  
And all I am is all I could not mention.**

He's left to wander and struggle. He's left to try a perilous journey - straight into the heart of his unwanted world. And then, all he can think about is his coworkers - no, companions. What kind of world would he have lived in with them, and their without he? There is a clock, somewhere in the distance, ringing in the new hour. And as he counts the sounds, he becomes alarmed and amazed when it stops chiming after the fourteenth strike. And then he's running, as best he can, up steep mounds of rock and hills. Bounding as best he can without any aid but his own endurance, and it leaves him bewildered.

**Like who will bring me flowers when it's over  
And who will give me comfort when it's cold**

He can hear voices once more, screeching and keening in such anguish, that he feels as if bile is rising in his throat. Spencer Reid cannot bare to chance a look at the torture and degradation on those he hears, mind set on that one lone goal he knows - so deep down - he'll never accomplish. Winds pick up as she trudges on, running now obsolete as a downpour assaults his being. Hands, knees, feet, drenched in slick mud make it all the more difficult. His voice lost to the air stream as he attempts to keep his breathing even.

**She took a plane to somewhere out in space  
To start a life and maybe change the world**

Her voice echoes in the maelstrom, a beacon that he ventures to. And he is weeping, torn by emotions left unchecked. Without his mother's presence any more, he can't help but dive down farther into such depressions. He wraps his lanky arms about his body, shivering as she follows her voice. That voice with such confused authority, doused in child-like wonder, that makes him miss his younger years. A young voice enters the atmosphere with hers, and it's all he can take. Dropping to his knees, he lets out a horrified yell, begging them to leave him be.

**See I never meant for you to have to crawl  
No I never meant to let you go at all**

**Don't ever say goodbye**

Silence. Grateful, unyielding silence hits his auditory senses. And he relishes in it, curling into a ball only fifty yards from his destination. Oh, how he wasn't to crawl - to shuffle his being over to the warmth he feels emitting from it's light. But there's no motor functions, no will or determination anymore. Just that long hand of his, reaching out to it as his doe-like eyes gaze in wonder. Never had he been so close, so near it to bask in the feel. And his heart is breaking. He yearns to just grasp it once, but fate tells him he has no luck. And Spencer Reid is left alone.

**See my head aches from all this thinkin'  
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'**

He begins to fall, the earth swallowing him whole like he was nothing more than an appetizer before its next meal. The cold feel of metal and horror is left in his mouth. An odd taste that makes him want to vomit, but he stays still. That lone hand, still outstretched, clings to the metal they've placed in his grip. Warming to the touch with the smell of gunpowder. He wanted to drop it, and cradle his arm into him. But try as he might he couldn't. He could hear the safety click off, and his eyes were shut tight in a chance to brace himself.

**Wonder what you do and where it is you stay  
These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away**

The sound of a bullet slamming out of the barrel made him yelp. But there was no harm to him, no blood warmly leaving his body, no bones breaking from impact. And he opened his eyes to see light trickling down into his hole. Heaving the weapon from him he made a move to stand, leaning on the walls around him to support his weakening body. Spencer Reid tries to move towards the light, but like Tinkerbelle in the Peter Pan stories, it flutters away from him - easing him down farther into the hole. Leaded legs drag him onwards, away from the heat and he stumbles most of the way.

**Who will bring me flowers when it's over  
And who will give me comfort when it's cold**

He's freezing once more, and wishing he had a coat on. But wishes are nothing in this world. Cold sub-reality assaults him and it takes him longer to follow the willow-wisp, for now, his knees give out. And he's crawling, inch by agonizing inch toward the depths of some abyss his mind has created for his last resting place. More tears strangely well up, and it astounds him at how much he weeps here and not in the real world. He wishes for noise now, to keep his mind alert before he's consumed whole. And all the truth he knows has become lethal - like the electric chair waiting for a new victim. He stops, only inches from yet another chasm, eyes wide in terror.

**Who will I belong to when the day just won't give in  
And who will tell me how it ends and how it all begins**

**Don't ever say goodbye**

He's being jolted, and can feel it. It's pulling him down farther and farther into the unknown world. And he feels like his body is being ripped asunder. Like God is smiting him for all the wrongs he's done in his life. For all those he's hurt or will hurt, and he wants to cry out in pain, but words are forming in his mind, being spewed out instead of shrieks. It's like he's begging, and pleading, and no-one is listening. Voices are echoing above him and he begins to shift about - almost flailing to keep away from the void. Life, he wants his own life. He wants to live on and prove to all he knows he's worthy of the life he leads.

**I'm only human**  
**I'm only human  
I'm only human**

**

* * *

  
**

Jarring awake, his large eyes land on his coworker - no, best friend in better terms - looking at him with a worried expression.

"You know, I kinda know you're human, genius."

A lopsided grin is all he can manage to offer as a reply. Standing up Dr. Spencer Reid, handwriting analyst for the BAU in the FBI, lets out a yawn and pops his back once more. His eyes notice that it's eight in the morning, and a dry chuckle left him as Derek Morgan clapped him on the back, leading him to his apartment's front door.

"Who knew you talked in your sleep. You never do it when we're on the plane."

"Who said I sleep on the plane?" Spencer retorted hastily as he gathered his items for another day at work.

* * *

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life. - Lord Byron


End file.
